


the entire history of human desire

by willindisguise



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, But not explicit like, But only a little, Holster is Very Bi for his BFF but it takes him a while to realize it, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, because i'm a shy penguin, overuse of the words bro and dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willindisguise/pseuds/willindisguise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're just best friends. </p><p>There's nothing gay about it. </p><p>Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the entire history of human desire

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Here you go guys. I accidentally wrote Holster/Ransom fic. 
> 
> Its rusty because I haven't seriously written something I liked in a long time, and unedited, but i'm pretty happy with it. 
> 
> Also, I've never written anything like...vaguely sexy anymore, so please excuse my awkward and very bad attempt at talking about masturbation. 
> 
> Also, come by my tumblr (nbpxrsphone.tumblr.com) and say hi!
> 
> I also hate to add this, but I'm in a bit of a dire financial situation, so it would be great if anyone reading this could check out my gofundme (https://www.gofundme.com/26zbprw), of course, I'd be happy to write something for anybody who donated anything, no matter how small. If you did do this, just send me an ask on tumblr with a request or something, and I'd be happy to write something just for you!

**(now)**

 

A kiss. A breath, gasping and shuddering. 

 

Holster feels like his blood is on fire, just from the feeling of Ransom’s lips on his. (But then again, maybe that’s really the whiskey).

 

 

 

**(then -- freshman year)**

 

Justin Oluransi is an enigma. All at once science nerd and hockey bro -- and the thing is, Holster has never had a problem making friends, not once, not one single time in his entire life, but he gets the feeling that his fellow D-Man can’t exactly say the same thing. 

 

He feels, honestly, that Ransom is learning himself at the same pace Holster is learning him. It's like Holster is carefully pulling away layers, years of walls built up in defense of childish scorn. 

 

Holster learns that Ransom is touch starved, and once given the opportunity, quickly becomes the clingiest person Holster has ever met. Its briefly weird, briefly troubling. Holster is too used to the aggressive masculinity of the Junior Leagues, where even the smallest of touches would earn you a “No-Homo, Bro” and a worried glance from your teammates. In Holster’s experience, it isn’t a good idea to hang all over fellow D-Men or new Best Friends. 

 

But Holster doesn’t mind, not really. He can’t bring himself to, not when Ransom looks all soft and at ease and like he can’t believe he’s found someone he can be so comfortable with. 

 

And besides, Ransom has surprisingly soft skin. Hes warmer than Holster is, and if he wants to be Holsters brand new personal space heater, there’s very little Holster could do to stop it. 

 

Ransom likes to press his arm up against Holster when they sit on the couch watching TV. He likes to rest his hand on Holster’s shoulder when he leans over it to glance down at his laptop screen. Ransom likes hugging, and not in the awkward ‘lets clasp hands and pat each others backs and be bros about it’ way. Ransom likes long, lingering embraces, Ransom likes to stroke his hand over Holsters back and breathe him in.

 

Ransom likes to hold hands, too. But only when he’s drunk.

 

If Holster were a different kind of guy, he might worry that this level of public displays of affection were going to send out the wrong kind of vibes. He might worry that everyone around them was suddenly going to think that Holster liked having other guy’s dicks in his mouth. But Holster isn’t that kind of guy. 

 

Besides, he’s pretty sure that Shitty would feel the need to sit him down and have a very long talk with him if Holster suddenly turned into the kind of guy who said “No Homo” to his best friend. 

 

As it is, they fall into a comfortable pattern. They leave their dorms every morning, and converge on the path to morning practice. Holster lightly bumps his shoulder against Ransom’s as they walk, just to watch the sleepy smile spread over his face. They go to practice and skate until they feel so tired they could cry, and smile through it all anyway. At team breakfast, Ransom slips confidently into the empty space Holster has saved for him, and after two weeks, no one even bothers to chirp them for the habit they have of sharing breakfasts. (It's not their fault that neither of them can ever decide what they want. And besides, they’re growing boys.) 

 

They’re just  _ best friends _ .

 

There’s nothing gay about it.

 

Probably. 

 

 

 

**(now)**

 

Ransom’s fingers are curled tight into his shirt, and Holster finally understands why some people look like they’d rather suffocate than stop kissing their boyfriend. 

 

He’s never had an addictive personality, but he might get addicted to  _ this _ . The hot slick glide of Ransom’s lips against his, the soft warmth of Ransom’s hand against his side. 

 

And holy shit, Holster feels like this could kill him. Just kissing and over the shirt touching. 

He feels like Ransom could  _ destroy  _ him. 

 

 

 

**(then -- freshman year)**

 

Holster has a realisation during Christmas Break. 

 

See, at some point he can’t quite pinpoint, him and Rans stopped just being “Ransom and Holster”, and started being “Ransom-And-Holster”. 

 

Its January 1st, 12:01 AM, and he’s standing in the dull glow of New Years fireworks. He’s standing there, a little dumbstruck, staring at the selfie he’s just gotten from Ransom.

 

Ransom, who’s all the way in fucking Canada right now. 

 

Ransom, tucked under his blankets with his dog, both looking vaguely terrified.

 

‘It has begun.’ Ransom had texted him, a small frowny face its companion. And then, a moment later. ‘Happy NY. Make sure you find a cute girl to kiss for me.” 

 

He feels, quite suddenly, like hes missing a limb.

 

As he moves on from New Years, Holster struggles to figure out how he feels about it all. He makes the drive from his house to Toronto, just like they’d planned, and roadtrip back to Samwell together. The start of a tradition. 

  
  


Hes not sure how he feels about it all. About being part of a pair, suddenly. One half of a matched set. He isn’t sure, but he does know that for most of Christmas Break, he’d found himself leaning, expecting Ransom to be there to take his weight. Holster isn’t quite sure what to do with himself when he doesn’t have Ransom next to him. The space between them makes him feel disjointed, fractured, and a little bit like someone has taken everything and moved it an inch to the left -- just enough of a difference for him to be constantly put off.

 

He isn’t sure how he feels about being one side of a coin, isn’t sure what it means, really, that he’s started comparing everything and everyone he meets to Ransom, that he’s started thinking that any situation would be better, if only Ransom were in it. 

 

 

 

**(now)**

 

Ransom keeps making these shuddering, desperate sounds right into Holster’s mouth, and Holster thinks that nothing will ever be as hot as that. 

 

Thinks it right up until Ransom fucking whimpers when Holster nips lightly at his bottom lip.

 

Nothing will ever be as hot as  _ that _ .

 

 

 

**(then -- sophomore year)**

 

Ransom and Holster are moving into the Haus. They’ve talked about it excitedly for months, and it's finally, finally happening.

 

Holster is all bright excitement, bubbling nerves. He feels like this year is going to be the greatest one of his life. 

 

Ransom is a little bit quieter, but Holster doesn’t imagine that there’s anything serious behind it. It’s been a long summer, thats all. Holster knows just as well as anybody how tiring family can be. 

 

He doesn’t even think to be worried. Not until he’s making his way down the hall and  _ hears _ .   
  


“--but dude, don’t worry. No one on the team would care, least of all--”

 

“Alright, alright. You’re right. I know.” 

 

“Do you? Know, I mean? Because hell dude, just ask any of the other guys, they’ll say the exact same thing.” 

 

There’s a sigh, the kind that Ransom makes when he’s finally figured something out. The sigh that to Holster’s ears is as good as words, but can sometimes be hard for other people to translate. The sigh that means: “Maybe this is okay. Maybe I know the answer. Maybe this might not ruin me.” 

 

Ransom doesn’t say those words, not exactly. But he does say “Thanks, Shitty.” 

 

Holster moves quick, hiding just around the corner, before Ransom can see him outside the door. He takes deep, slow breaths, turning the half overheard conversation over in his head. 

 

The distant “Hey, Rans? Just tell him. He deserves to know,” makes Holster’s breath get stuck in his lungs. He holds it there until he distantly heard Ransom mumble a reply, and then again until he finishes listening to Ransom’s familiar footsteps ascending the stairs to their attic bedroom.

 

He slips into the bathroom, a convenient cover story, and turns the tap on for good measure, watching the water flow while he contemplates, watching it heat up and threaten to fog up his glasses. 

 

Ransom was worried about someone on the team treating him differently. Ransom was worried, and went to Shitty, and perhaps more importantly,  **didn’t** go to Holster. 

 

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth for days. 

 

 

 

**(now)**

 

Holster is the one who pulls away first, pulling in desperate, gasping breaths of air, and leaning his forehead down against Ransom’s. 

 

Ransom is equally, beautifully breathless. He pulls in a breath, and lets out the softest, breathiness  _ “fuck” _ along with his exhale.

 

Holster can’t help but agree, his lips quirking up into a smile. “ _ Fuck _ .”

 

 

 

**(then -- sophomore year)**

 

Maybe it isn’t fair, the way Holster starts to retreat into himself a little bit after he overhears the conversation between Ransom and Shitty. It’s jealousy -- maybe. Holster has always been the type to get jealous of his friends. He’s covetous. He cares too much about earning them and keeping them. And he’d thought, stupidly, that he would never worry about it with Ransom, never worry about being left. Because him and Rans were supposed to be the be-all and end-all.

 

They were supposed to grow old together and be grumpy old man bros.

 

Ransom going to Shitty over him, its stupid, but it hurt. 

He can see the second that Ransom notices the difference in behaviour, can see the flash of confusion in his eyes, and the next day, the flash of hurt. 

 

Okay, so forget  _ maybe _ . Holster is perfectly aware that he isn’t being very chill.

 

Two weeks and six stiff, awkward moments of silence later, Ransom turns to him and says, “Hey, bro?”    
  


And he sounds achingly nervous. Like hes scared. It makes the annoyance flair up in Holsters stomach all over again. How could Ransom be scared of him, of all people?   
  


Holster barely looks up from his textbook. “Huh?” he says.

 

And he hears Ransom breathe in, deep. 

 

“You know bisexuals?” 

 

He reaches up, adjusting his glasses, and makes a thoughtful sound. “I think so. The field hockey team? A couple of girls in one of Shitty’s gender studies classes. And I’m starting to suspect Lardo--” 

 

Ransom makes a distressed sort of sound, voice quick and harsh, “No. Hols. I mean, like. You know of bisexuals. Like, of their existence, right? M’not asking you to name names here.” 

 

And Holster has to stop, has to think for a second. Where is this going? Why does Ransom’s voice have a desperate, confession edge to it, like he’s begging Holster to understand before he has to say it himself. “I know of bisexuals, yes.” 

 

“Oh. Good. Yeah. So. I am one, too, you know. Bisexual.” 

 

And there it is. Something unwinds a little bit in Holsters chest, the selfish jealousy that had been there since Ransom talked to Shitty.    
  
Because he gets it, really, very suddenly. Because making friends to Holster has alwasy been as easy as breathing, but it hasn’t always been for Ransom. Because maybe, just maybe, Ransom has tried to tell this to people before, other team mates, other friends, and they didn’t react nearly as well as Holster or any of the other guys would. Because Ransom had mentioned, once, that he chose Samwell because of how Liberal it was.    
  


He smiles, only softly, and reaches out to punch Ransom softly on the shoulder. 

 

“Swawesome, bro.” 

 

Ransom smiles back. “Swawesome?” 

 

Holster nods. “Swawesome.” 

  
He leans in then, lets his shoulder rest warmly against Ransom’s, and watches Ransom relax.

 

 

 

**(now)**

“You know bisexuals?” Holster breathes, grinning. Hes so fucking deliriously happy. And where he’d been tipsy before, now he feels drunk. Head reeling and stomach soaring.

  
  
Ransom furrows his brows, wrinkles up his nose, and huffs out an annoyed breath. Holster has to kiss him again, just  _ has  _ to. He can’t help it. He wants to drive Ransom as crazy as Ransom drives him.   


  
But Ransom breaks away softly after a moment, looking a little embarrassed by the soft, wet sound their mouths make. “Fuck you.” He says, cheeks warm. 

  
  
Holster grins, again. “If you want.”    
  


 

 

**(then -- junior year)**

 

When it comes down to it, Ransom being bisexual changes a grand total of zero things about their relationship. Holster doesn’t have any gay panic. Ransom still hangs off Holster at parties. They still eat breakfast next to each other every single day.    
  


 

Sometimes, Holster sees Ransom checking out a dude, and says “Bro, hes hot. You should hit that.” Its new, and different, but it's good, and Ransom smiles at him every time, shoves at his shoulder. 

  
  
Ransom being bisexual doesn’t change anything, until he finally realises Eric Bittle is gay. And then, all that really changes is the tense set to Bitty’s shoulders. He's more comfortable now, knowing that one of his closest friends and teammates is queer too. And Ransom looks so proud of himself that it almost hurts Holster to look at. (Sometimes, Ransom is so bright that Holster has to look away. Like hes the fucking sun or something.)   
  


 

Ransom being bisexual doesn’t change anything, until Ransom actually goes and actually starts seeing a guy.    
  


 

He had had one semi-serious relationship in their freshman year, which lasted for four months. She was small, and pretty in a plain way, and studying environmental science. She had sat with them at breakfast and always laughed at Holsters jokes, and Holster thought that as far was girlfriends went, Ransom had picked a pretty great one.    
  


 

The guy takes him by surprised, because he’s exactly the opposite of what Holster has come to think of as Ransom’s  _ type _ . The boyfriend takes him by surprise, because it's the guy that Ransom and Holster have been fondly referred to as ‘Lax Asshole #3’ since their freshman year.    
  


 

Lax Asshole #3 is tall, and broad shouldered, and freckled, and Holster walks up to breakfast one morning to find Lax Asshole #3 in his spot at the table, and it hits him like a smack in the face. His brow wrinkles up in confusion, he can feel it happening. It's the face that Ransom’ likes to laugh and chirp him about, the face that Ransom says makes him look like he's constipated or something.  Except, Ransom isn’t looking at him today.    
  


 

“The fuck is this?” Holster says, slipping into the empty seat beside Johnson and inclining his head in the direction of Lax Asshole #3. It comes out a little too raw, and Holster is embarrassed by it. Embarrassed and confused by the heavy, awkward feeling in his stomach, by the way he wants to pull Lax Asshole #3 across the table and punch his smarmy freckled little face in.    
  


 

Johnson just sighs. A heavy, world weary sigh, like he’s fucking atlas, with the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. He shakes his head. “I know, right?” Then, a glance between Holster and Ransom. “I’m so tired of this trope.”    
  


 

Johnson, Holster sometimes forgets, is a quirky guy. Holster doesn’t really know how to talk to him, not really able to deal with the kind of existential crises’ that Johnson inspires in many of the other members of the Samwell Hockey Team.    
  


 

(“What if like...none of us are real? What if i’m wasting my time on all this science shit and its meaningless because we’re like….some freaks game of The Sims?”    
  


 

“ _ Ransom _ . Go to sleep.”)     
  


 

So, Holster just looks at Johnson for a moment, trying the parse the comment fully. Then, he nods. “Okay.” He says, which is his usual automatic reply to Johnson anyway, and leans back in his chair, resigning himself to a very quiet and lonely breakfast.    


 

He feels uneasy all day. An anxious feeling building in his stomach and crawling its way up through his chest, and he doesn’t understand it. Its the jealousy thing again, maybe, except that Holster has never been jealous when Ransom has dated before.   


 

He lets it gnaw at him all day, until both his nails and every pen he owns are all chewed up and vaguely disgusting looking. (He throws the pen out before he even steps into the Haus, knowing that if he leaves it on the desk it will destroy Ransom’s delicate coral reef ecosystem.)    
  


 

“Dude,” He says to Ransom, that night.    
  


 

Ransom is laying in his bunk, reading about like...some shit Holster will never really understand. Holster is lying in his bunk, staring aimlessly at the underside of Ransom’s, like if he tries really really hard he can stare right through it. He wants to close his eyes, roll over, and just go to sleep. He really does. They have early practice tomorrow and it would be better for both of them if he just ignored whatever this was and moved on.

 

  
Holster has always been bad at doing what was best for himself.   
  


 

“Yeah?” Ransom says, and his voice is quite, far off, like he's not actually paying that much attention, like its an automated response.    
  


 

“What was up this morning? With Lax Asshole #3? He was all over your shit.”    
  


 

“Huh?”    
  


 

“At breakfast.”    
  


 

“Oh, with Matt.”    
  


 

Holster snorts. “ _ Matt _ ?”

 

And he thinks:  _ oh my god, what are you doing? _

 

And he thinks:  _ shut up, shut up, shut up, you’re entering asshole territory very quickly. _ __  
  


 

And suddenly, the upper half of Ransom’s body is dangling down, his eyes squinting suspiciously at Holster.    
  


 

“Are you pissed off, or something?” He asks, and Holster is instantly a little bit offended. Him? Pissed off? Why would he be pissed off about his Bro hanging out with an asshole? He has no right to be pissed off.    
  


 

“Why would I be pissed?”    
  


 

Ransom shrugs -- or makes a motion that is as close to a shrug as he can get while hanging upside down from a bunk bed. “You sound it.”    
  


 

“Well, it's just weird, alright? Last year, you hate the guy, this year you’re like...buddies, or whatever?”    
  


 

Sometimes, Holster wishes he wasn’t as familiar with the incredulous look on Ransoms face as he is. Or the snort that follows it.   
  


 

“Buddies.” Ransom intones, a slight edge of laughter to his voice. “Like.  _ Just two guys being dudes. _ He asked me out. I said yeah. He's hot, so… why not?”   
  


 

“But you don’t  _ like  _ him. You never liked him.”    
  


 

“I never liked _ Lax Douchebags _ .” Ransom sighs, leveraging himself back up to his bunk. Holster is struck by the loss he feels at not being able to see Ransom’s face. “Hes nicer than I thought. And besides. We’re going on a date. It's not like i’m gonna  _ marry  _ him.”   


 

Holster is quiet, then, just for a moment. He really wants the words to be comforting.   
  


 

Ransom lets him mull it over for a full minute before saying, voice quiet and insecure, and a little bit scared. “I thought you’d be cool with it.”    
  


 

And… yeah, Holster thought so too.

 

 

 

**(now)**

 

Holster is definitely, definitely, developing an addiction to this. His hands are under Ransom’s shirt now, and  _ holy fuck _ , his skin is so soft, Holster can’t even believe it.

 

“What are we  _ doing _ ?” Ransom sighs, dreamy, dazed, breathless still, and Holster has to smile, nip lightly at his jaw line.

 

“Kissing. Obviously.” He says, smile pressed up against the skin Ransom is baring happily for him. “And then, dinner, I think, tomorrow. Just us.”

 

 

 

**(then -- junior year)**

 

Holster doesn’t mean for it to happen.

 

Holy shit, he really really doesn’t mean for it to happen.

 

Thing is, Holster would probably be crowned the jack-off king of the universe, and no one would be surprised. For all the awesome pussy he’s getting now that he's an honest to god college hockey star, he still succumbs to the siren call of some self love a remarkable amount.

 

Hes got it down to a fucking science.

 

He can play himself like a fucking instrument. He knows exactly the right way to move his hand, the little twist at the end of a pull that makes his blood sing hot, knows exactly how much lube he likes, and knows exactly what kind of girl to think of to get him right to the edge.

 

And maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by it, when things go wrong.

 

See, Holsters dream girl is tall. Not too tall, not as tall as him, but almost there. His dream girl has dark skin and intense eyes and beautiful fingers. She’s funny, smart (smarter than him, god knows, he wants a girl who could think circles around him), and likes sports.

 

A nice rack would be a very welcome bonus, too, if he’s going to be honest about it.

 

That’s the kind of girl he thinks of when his own hand is sliding slick over himself. He shuts his eyes, lays his head back, and somewhere in the space between moaning and coming, she starts to look a little too much like Ransom for comfort.

 

And like, okay, maybe it shouldn’t be worth freaking out over. Maybe it’s totally normal for Ransom to invade his thoughts like this when they’ve been so close for so long now, living in each other’s pockets for almost two and a half years now. They were joined at the hip, inseparable, everyone said so, even before they moved into the Attic room together. Now he’s seeing Ransom literally every day after he wakes up and before he goes to sleep, now he’s seeing Ransom damp and warm and fresh from a shower, its probably totally normal for random thoughts to pop up now and then.

 

Holster wouldn’t be worried, if not for the fact that imagining Ransom’s hands (which, alright, are pretty fucking beautiful. Those stupidly long fingers and surprisingly delicate wrists that Holster has been spending weeks paying way too much attention to) on his dick turn him on more than any chick has in what must be months.

 

He wouldn’t be worried if the thought of Ransom looking down on him while they had sex hadn’t made him come harder than he had in weeks.

 

It leaves him panting, breathless, and he thinks maybe he should be more worried than he is. Because you see, its worrying that he’s getting off to fantasies about his best friend. Not so worrying that hes getting off to fantasies of a guy. Worrying that the weeks go by and he keeps doing it.

 

His biggest problem, he thinks, is that hes heard Ransom jerk off. Hes heard it a thousand and one hundred times, the inevitable outcome of sharing a room with a twenty year old dude.

 

Its all hitching gasps and bitten of moans, and Holster knows he should really be trying to forget them the moment he hears them, knows some instant repression should be happening. He's pretty sure its not cool to think too hard about the noises your best friend makes when they’re indulging in some self love. He should really be forgetting about it, except that he can’t. Except that those noses get stuck in his head and he’s pretty sure he’s never going to get rid of them unless someone actually goes and invents brain bleach, or one of those narley mind wipers from Men In Black.

 

So, Holster ends up jerking off. He ends up imagining Ransom’s eyes and Ransom’s smile and Ransom’s hands, and the fucking noises he knows from first hand experience that Ransom makes when he’s turned on. He ends up imagining himself on top of Ransom, touching him, being the one who gets to wring those pretty little sounds out of that pretty little mouth. Imagines himself getting to make Ransom gasp and squirm and lose his fucking mind.

 

It builds, and builds, and builds. Weeks of it. Holster thinks he might be losing his mind, just a little bit.

 

Him and Rans have always been close, always, but every touch feels like electricity and every glance makes his heart beat a little bit faster, and he's pretty sure that he’ll never be able to look at Ransom in the morning again without blushing.

 

Hes pretty sure that he is, at least a little bit, head over heels in love.

 

So, it builds.

 

And it builds.

 

And every day he fights not to give in and kiss Ransom square on the mouth. Fights and fights and fights, and doesn’t realise that all the whiskey he’s drinking at the Haus Party is going to cloud his judgement until he finds himself pleasantly buzzed.

 

He feels like he could kiss the pretty little co-ed that accidentally spills beer all over Ransom’s shirt, but only because it means Ransom has to go upstairs and change.

 

Holster follows after him, like a lost puppy, like a lovestruck idiot. All he knows is that Ransom is walking and he’s following, because he’s pretty sure he’d follow Ransom anywhere. He’d follow Ransom to hell and back, he’d follow Ransom all the way to fucking Mount Doom.

 

He slips through the door just as soon as Ransom is pulling a dry t-shirt on over his head, and tries not to be too disappointed about all the skin that’s slowly disappearing from view.

 

Ransom turns as he enters, and smiles at him. Holster smiles back, wide and goofy, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

 

“Great party, eh?” Ransom asks, the canadian in his voice more prominent than ever, filling Holster’s stomach with butterflies.

 

He takes a step forward, and he can’t really help himself from there. All he knows is that his hands are tugging Ransom close, and Ransom looks bewildered and confused and just a little bit thrilled.

 

A kiss. A breath, gasping and shuddering. 

 

Holster feels like his blood is on fire just from the feeling of Ransom’s lips on his. (But then again, maybe that’s really the whiskey). 

 

 

 

**(now)**

 

Ransom’s smile is blinding, like the sun times a million. Holster wishes he had sunglasses, that they were anywhere near sunglasses appropriate weather. Wishes he had an excuse to shield himself from this.

 

Ransom smiles, and wraps his arms around Holster’s middle, and says, “What, like a date?”

 

“Yeah. Like a date. If you want.”

 

“Swawesome.” Ransom sighs, and Holster finds himself thrilled by the happy edge to his voice.

 

“Swawesome.” He repeats back, faithfully, and Ransom leans up to close the gap between them with a kiss. 


End file.
